The ragdoll
by Twisted up frown
Summary: One shot set after Cato and Clove have won the games. "She had just come out with a mental scar a few inches deeper than all his physical ones." The story is always better than the description, trust me.


_**A/N**_

_**Cato and Clove have already won the games.**_

_**This is set around six months or a year afterwards.**_

_**Hope you like this one (:**_

Clove held the rag doll tight in her fist all the time. It barely ever left her sight. She'd like the feel of its cold fabric against the palm of the hand. She always gripped onto it like it was her life line. It would comfort her when the nightmares got bad, especially when he wasn't there to comfort her himself.

Some days she was normal, if by normal you mean the sarcastic trained mess that Clove had always been and that Cato was used to.

Other days she was different, as if her soul had been swapped with one of a scared cold child when they weren't looking.

He'd go away on capitol business, and Clove would sit and wonder why she couldn't attend, or at least why Cato wouldn't tell her what he was doing all that time. She'd get herself worked up, emptying the drawers and cupboards and watching watch each individual piece of china smash to the floor with a look of satisfaction. He'd come back to the mess, remaining plates and saucers cracking under his boots, but it wouldn't faze him. It'd taken Cato a long time to learn to control his temper around the damaged girl. He knew it wasn't fair that she received pity off the public. They had both been through exactly the same games; she had just come out with a mental scar a few inches deeper than all his physical ones.

The day he returned from a weekend trip into the capitol to attend to 'business', Clove happened to be having one of her normal days. She'd managed to get through the night and had only smashed one cup. This had made her proud of herself. Cato had trudged in, a rucksack spilling with clothes flung on his back. He reeked of sex and women's perfume, just as he always did. Not that she'd notice. Not that she ever did.

The blonde had found her collapsed on the couch, drowning in sleep, doll clutched in her hand as always. Cato didn't want to wake her, but he knew if he left her she'd wake herself in a panic later. He knelt down next to her and murmured something in her ear.

Clove's lids flickered open, revealing the striking eyes that people tended to associate with her, along with her short temper.

Cato didn't hesitate to slip his arm round the back of her legs and lift her up, picking the doll up from the couch after him. With a sigh, he started up the stairs, placing the small sixteen year-old on the double bed in the center of the room. He watched from the foot of the bed as she wrapped herself in the covers, burying her face in the pillow. The blonde slowly walked over to the dresser at the other side of the room, setting her doll down, thinking that maybe because he was back, she wouldn't need it to comfort her tonight.

He let his jacket drop to the floor as he walked over to the bed, sitting facing away from her and sliding off his boots. He was trying to keep his mind clear. He didn't want to think: Thinking hurt.

It hurt when he thought about Clove especially, when he thought about her talking so openly about suicide and hurting herself all the time, when he thought about not being able to be there and make sure she doesn't do anything stupid, when he thought about what he was doing in the capitol instead. Although it wasn't his fault, it still hurt him like hell.

At one time, Cato had believed fully in the Capitol, and even more in pride. That belief hadn't been destroyed completely. He was a victor and loving the Capitol was, well, what was expected. It was his faith in them that had suffered, and now he wasn't a part of it willingly, he was merely scared. For both him, and his dark haired companion.

After pulling his shirt over his head, he lay back next to Clove, staring up blankly at the ceiling. At the feel of him there, she rolled over, resting against him and burying her face in his side. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the guilty sick feeling that rose from his stomach.

Running through his mind were the all the Capitol clients, with blue, red and purple colours in their hair, with orange skin and green eyeliner. Each of them dressed in some kind of lace, covering as little of their body as possible. He remembered each kiss, soft and lighter than what he was used to with his Clove. He remembered each touch, and the shiver that ran through him when he felt their scaly skin. It didn't make him feel good, it made him feel terrible, but it isn't like he had a choice. They were selling him, of course, The Capitol.

Just like Clove's doll soothed her, the feel of her brown hair settled him when he was up late at night like this. He liked brushing through the knots with his fingers, leaving it soft and silky against his chest when she lent her head against him.

Cato buried his face in her dark strands, breathing in the scent of the strawberry shampoo she used. He wanted to tell her about all the girls so damn badly; it was killing him. Cato knew she wouldn't be able to take it. She'd smash a few more plates, rip him apart and start on herself. So instead, he lay there, brushing another piece of hair from her face and pressing his lips to her temple.

He left Clove again, wondering, she smashed more plates, he bought more, and she just smashed them too. When he stopped buying plates, she started trashing things. She tugged the draws out of the dressers, spilling the contents, pulling down curtain rails and cracking windows, until she went over the edge.

Piercing her skin with the needle for the last time, he pulled the thread through and tied it tight and small, so small you could barely tell it was there. She had stared at him the whole way through the process of stitching up her arm. He wouldn't even look her in the eye. The black thread reminded Clove of the stitches that made up her precious dolls' smiling mouth. Cato had been worried about her on the train ride to the Capitol. She had been in a bad state, one of her worst, so when he returned, he wasn't surprised to find her in no other place but on the bathroom floor, the cabinet mirror in pieces around her feet.

He was just happy she wasn't dead.

She just found it comforting that he cared.


End file.
